


tasteless

by The_Resurrection_3D



Series: Crimson Bound AU [2]
Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Brief Eye Horror, Casual arson, Gen, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-02 07:11:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18806260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Resurrection_3D/pseuds/The_Resurrection_3D
Summary: Tom takes a demon to Denny's.





	tasteless

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bradsucks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bradsucks/gifts).



> If you don't know what's going on, I'm still spiraling and posting more of the Crimson Bound Eddsworld AU I started a year ago, which you can read more about [here (links to other parts, in chronological order)](https://theresurrection3d.dreamwidth.org/882.html) or [here (more on the basic set-up)](https://the-resurrection-3d.tumblr.com/cb).
> 
> So I went to Tom's chapter. Oh, what a mistake. Even the scene where he gets his dick-pierced is too bogged down by its own build-up to the bait-and-switch to be tolerable, at least to me. Who the fuck let me think I could write ...I was gonna finish that sentence but honestly I don't need to. And if you've seen the kinda shit I've posted here, imagine how poorly-written and unfun a scene of Tom getting his dick pierced with bullets because of an anime from the 80s had to be for me to not just post it. 
> 
> Coincidentally it would be writing some TomTord cannibalism in-between reading HTTYD fic almost a year later that would make me understand what exactly makes the Stockholm Syndrome genre of fic I was pulling from here even worth reading.

When Tom is seventeen, his closest friend gouges his eye and tells him he's cursed.

It ~~goes~~  starts like this:

i.

Imagine him, sixteen, new used car and veins full of stolen liquor. Mom’s cabinet, red wine, even though he prefers beer.

Snow up to his knees, red and green lights wrapped around the streetlights, not a single good fucking song on the radio. You know what that means.

Forest, thick, private, nearly twisting his ankle climbing the fence. Christmas trees, don’t even have to cut ‘em yourself. Come in, take a look around, we even have little ones if you’re a real Charlie Brown…

But someone’s there before him, whistling a foreign tune as he runs a gloved hand over the bark, causing sparks to dance under his fingertips.

Tom knows what he is on site: a Forestborn, one who walks after the Devourer, who lives in the Great Forest and eats its putrid fruit, who sings with Death.

(Wonders briefly if Death sings death metal, or if that’s a little too on the nose.)

From behind, he’s an average man: probably around twenty-three or -four, short and wiry, wearing a simple, sleek trench coat despite the temperatures. As Tom gets closer, his heart pounding over the crunch of snow, he can see the chocolate-colored hair and a pair of horns, branches reaching towards the sky like skeleton hands.

He also begins to see the strange symbol the forestborn has carved into the burning tree. Two peaks off to the side and a tail, like a corrupted music note.

Tom is getting close enough to feel the heat of the fire warming his skin, smell the rich, horrible redolence of the smoke. Thank god he’s wearing gloves, too, because otherwise he’d have dropped the gas can for how hard his palms are sweating.

But he can’t show he’s afraid.

(Still he’s tempted to take off his gloves and run his thumb over the charms embroidered along the inside of his belt, as he’s done so many times before)

The forestborn looks over at his shoulder with a red, empty eye. Smiles.

Tom cracks his own, too large, too toothy, and gives his gas can a shake. “Need a hand?”

When the creature – the man, if such a thing can still be said – turns around, a wave of power rolls over Tom so visceral and dark that he’s instantly bolted to the spot, struck, a cockroach stuck between the gears of his brain.

A face so beautiful that it cuts like a knife, lean and angular, bulging obsidian fingers crawling up his neck and over half of his face, up to the crimson rose that blooms where an eye should be.

The other eye gleams silver, even in the shadow of the burning tree.

Tom doesn’t know it now, but he looks away, that’s all he’s going to remember. He will never remember the forestborn’s face (for the mask will always wipe away whatever memory he has), but he will remember the effect of that one good eye: less piecing, more a punch to the gut. 

“I don’t know much of a hand you can give me,” the forestborn says, his accent strange – Swedish, maybe?—

(How unsettlingly mundane, for a forestborn to have an _accent_.)

“unless you want to take those charms off.”

Tom’s free hand instinctively reaches for his belt, earning a wider smile. “Not a chance.”

The forestborn gives a small shrug, a “Fair enough,” ere he steps to the side, gesturing towards the trees not yet affected by the fire.

Which is when Tom notices the fire isn’t spreading much – no, not at all. The sparks seem to die as soon as they fly free, as though things couldn’t get any weirder. “Have at it,” the forestborn says, “though I ask I still be allowed those to the right of us.”

“Why?” Tom asks, with a liquid assurance that doesn’t reach his core. “What are you even doing here?”

His lips pull back, shark teeth. “When the Forest hungers, so do I.”  Then another brief shrug. “Besides, Christmas is overrated, anyway.”

* * *

That is how Tom ends up inviting a forestborn to out to dinner (breakfast? It is like one am, after all), partly because he feels a deep kinship with anyone who hates Christmas as much as him, and partly to show he is not afraid.

The Great Forest is like a shark, or a dinosaur; it can smell your fear.

And it is – no, _is_ power, seeing through many eyes, speaking through many voices. Like a God.

The snow is starting to fall again as they walk side by side, it not even occurring to Tom, as he finishes the beer can he left buried on the other side of the gate, to go and just drive them both there. Up this close, he finds himself fascinated by the way the rose eye wilts as the snow begins to build up on its top petals, fine as dust.

“Can you feel anything?” he asks.

“Here?” The forestborn asks, pointing to his flower. He shakes his head. “Not really. The only ones that have any real nerve endings are the ones that bloom along here,” flicks his wrist towards his horns, “in the spring.”

“Any reason?”

The forestborn flashes a proud, predatory grin. “They grow teeth.”

 _That’s awesome._ “That’s cool, I guess."

A small smile lights the forestborn’s face. “Thank you.”

* * *

They walk to one of those diners attended only by truckers and university students looking to externalize the helplessness they feel – and that’s close enough to what he’s feeling, right?

I mean, you don’t befriend a forestborn if you’re sane.

The atmosphere darkles as soon as the forestborn walks in behind him, conversations cut off like a tap. He expects someone to try to throw them out, but no – instead the patrons sitting near the closest empty booth disperse, many rushing the door while the waitstaff cower behind the counter, debating who is to serve them in hushed, angry whispers.

Eventually someone takes their drink orders – Tom can’t read the label on his crushed-up beer, so he simply slams it down and points, “That.” The forestborn orders an empty cup with a lemon slice.

Once the drinks arrive, the whole tray practically thrown onto their table as the waitress scurries away, the forestborn pulls a small, green-glass vial from his inner coat pocket, pouring the contents atop the lemon – a set of actions Tom is too busy chugging a beer he definitely didn’t order (but will gladly take anyway) to notice.

The forestborn tosses the empty vial into the salt shakers, lighting a cigar and taking a long, deep drag.

“Are you ready?” The forestborn asks through a cloud of blue. Tom nods, and the forestborn lolls back into his hands, cigar hanging from the corner of his mouth. “Ask away.”

So Tom does.

“I was born in Norway” ( _so I’m a dumb ass, apparently_ ) “in 1816, which would put me at about… a hundred and ninety-seven?” The forestborn puffs out his cheeks, tapping some ash onto the table as his eye rolls to the ceiling. “Lord, that was back when – yes, we had just been given to Sweden.” _(So I’m_ not _a complete dumbass?)_ “I didn’t stay too long after I was marked.”

Tom waits for more, but the forestborn simply lets them lapse into silence. There’s so much he wants to ask that the words turn to noise in his brain, a flood barely held back by his tongue – is the Devourer real? Have you seen it? How did it feel to lose your heart?

Who did you kill?

 “I’d rather not say.”

Tom cringes so hard he bites his tongue; does he always think aloud when he’s drunk? He makes a choked sound and washes it down with another gulp of beer, but the embarrassment doesn’t take. “Why not? Feeling regrets?”

Why not? You lose any right to privacy when you make a pact with the Devil. Or at least Tom’s pretty sure that’s how it works.

“No, it simply raises more questions than I have want to give answers.” The creature exhales a thick cloud of smoke, takes a short sip of his water. “Then again, it has been a long time since anyone asked. It’s only my bloodbound that get asked much anymore, which I find very strange.”

 _My_ bloodbound. Tom gets a shiver at the implications, though he’s not sure why he’s any bit surprised.

The forestborn gives sort of a chuckle, sort of a sigh. “No use in pretending you’re interested in anything else, I suppose.”

“I’m…sorry?” Tom offers, but the forestborn dismisses him with a curt wave.

“It’s fine. It’s more annoying when humans pretend to care about my favorite color or my birthday.” His eyes slightly widen. “When was the last time I celebrated my birthday?”

Humans, _plural?_ Half of Tom mulls over, perhaps even feeling a bit offended, while the other, more quizzical half asks, “Does the Devourer not allow birthdays?”

“I’ll have to ask his opinion, next time I see him.”

By now, the horrific mundanity of everything has lessened to just being mundane. So he’s eating with a forestborn across the table, what’s the big deal?

 “I was always told the Devourer and all the other pagan—” wait, what’s the word? “—assholes  was what they were celebrating on Halloween. So I figured you guys celebrated everything I never got the chance to.”

Until recently, anyway.

God, don’t remind me.

 _“Ah-ha,”_ the forestborn chuckles, “Mormon? No, wait, let me guess.” He leans forward, motioning for service, and thus erupting the air into another whisper-yell cacophony. “Jehovah’s Witness?”

Tom’s pained expression says it all. The forestborn rests his chin on the heel of his palm, leaning forward with a devilish smile. “Disfellowshipped, or just rebellious?”

Disfellowshipped. The mere word makes his blood roar, and it’s not fair, Tom knows, but that smug tone makes him want to smash his bottle of beer over the edge of the table and –

Well, Tom doesn’t know what he wants to do, because he knows that once he starts he won’t be able to stop. For no real reason at all. 

No reason – I’ll show you no _fucking_ reason.

“Disfellowshipped,” Tom spits the word. “And _oh,_ you wanna know _why?”_

He’s leering over the table, shoving it into the forestborn’s stomach, black eyes wild and wide. “Because the reason they kicked us out is fucking homosexual.”

The forestborn gives a breathless chuckle, gently pushing the table back into place. “Go on. But before you do—”

“Nonono, you’re gonna _listen_ to me—”

The forestborn raises his hand, cocking his head towards the hillocks peering nervously out from over the counter-top. “A pound of bacon and two philly cheese-steaks to go, please?”

Tom lunges across the table, groping for the monster’s collar, practically growling out, “Fuck your fucking ba— _ow!”_ Tom yelps as a blue flame drags its tongue over his fingers, falling back as the fire begins to feast on the front of the forestborn’s red shirt.

The forestborn merely douses himself with his water, breathing deeply through his nose. When he sees Tom sucking pathetically on his own injuries, he offers what’s left of his cup.

“…’shave lemon in it,” Tom says around his fingers.

“It’s water from the Great Forest. Trust me, it’s fine.”

Something his mother once said flashes through his mind – something something don’t accept or you’ll be bound to the Forest forever. But if it was so important, he’d remember it, right?

Yeah, Tom finds himself chuckling, which causes the forestborn to furrow his brows. Right.

“Rather cowardly to attack a helpless opponent,” the forestborn says dryly as Tom sticks his hand into the plastic cup, the pain and redness vanishing instantly.

“Oh please,” Tom snaps back, mustering up all the sarcasm he can while still fisting another man’s drink. “You’re the last person to be complaining about being helpless.”

The forestborn smiles, blue smoke leeching through his teeth as he says with a strange, nostalgic air, “It has been an awful long time since anyone has called me a person.”

* * *

The forestborn signs the check by pulling the rose out of his eye, pulling until he can bring the thin, thorny stem to his mouth and cut it with his eyeteeth.

 “Doesn’t that hurt?” Tom asks.

“Oh, this?” Points the end of his impromptu pen towards his empty socket, which is drooling a vicious black liquid. Smells of wet grass and iron, so thick on Tom’s tongue that he has to bite his cheek to keep his focus away from gagging. “Not too much.”

“Too much?”

“Hurt a hell of a lot worse to grow it in.”

That must have been where his mark was, back when he was bloodbound, Tom realizes. That’s the doorway through which the Great Forest slips into a bloodbound, a necrotic wound of body, soul, and mind. Even homeschooled, Tom has seen the pictures of how the Forest claims the king’s pet murderers: Plants grow from their marks, parasites swim in their blood.

And then, on the rare occasion a forestborn dies, there’s always a patch of grass in the outline of their body, brown and dead where their heart should be.

So Tom has been told, anyway. He’s also been told a Magic Man in the sky decided to punish humanity forevermore because some dumb bitch ate a fruit because a talking snake told her to.

Some radicals say the Great Forest is actually Eden, seeking to reclaim us. That Adam and Eve were not run out by some angel with a flaming sword – they ran away.

But that’s all in his past. And Tom’s decided any god who doesn’t have the courage to punish him with a strike of lightning or a fist to the jaw in an alleyway is not one to whom he wants to pray.

* * *

“So your mother bound your father’s soul to a pineapple?” 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Someone please write a real version of "Tom takes demon!Tord to Denny's at 1am" because a fic with that premise has no reason to be this boring. Though funnily enough it would be the feedback I got on this draft that locked me in the dark windowless box that is ETF / "and everything you say gives me a real bad feeling." 
> 
> What's going on everyone? How are finals going? I had a nightmare last night that I had two already-late essays I hadn't started on due the next day and woke up in the same kind of intense panic usually reserved for angst fics and returning combat veterans.


End file.
